


hang an anchor from the sun

by theworldabouttodawn



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Slow Burn, but like my muse is completely gone rip, guest appearances from dylan strome and the oilers ensemble and also auston matthews, sort of idk it would actually be slow burn if it was much much longer, this actually sucks and is way too short and i cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 18:58:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9338603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theworldabouttodawn/pseuds/theworldabouttodawn
Summary: connor didn't expect to leave the world cup as jack eichel's friend, yet here he is.and it keeps on snowballing from there.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [westtcoast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/westtcoast/gifts).



> title from "fire escape" by andrew mcmahon in the wilderness
> 
> once again i'm sorry this is lowkey trash but i had fun writing it also i love [anh-thy](http://www.dyllarkin.tumblr.com) and owed her this rip
> 
> sorry y'all this is unbetaed

Connor finds out about the ankle sprain from NHL.com, picking up his phone after a cooldown cycle in the gym after morning skate. Immediately, he goes to compose a text, something like _that sucks_ or _I’m sorry_ or _hey, if you need to talk, just let me know_ because apparently they’re _that_ kind of friends now. (The World Cup was _weird._ ) But then he remembers how much he wouldn’t have appreciated texts like that back when he broke his collarbone, how much they reminded him of all that he wasn’t doing. And sure, they’re not rookies anymore, but both of them do still have the weight of failing franchises of their shoulders.

So instead, he googles _o shit i’ve fallen and i can’t waddup_ and texts the resulting image to Jack, captioning it _is this you?_

He doesn’t wait for a response, resolutely putting his phone away and going to shower. If Jack doesn’t text back, that’s fine. He’s probably hopped up on drugs anyways, and Connor is almost definitely not high on Jack’s list of priorities. That’s fine. It’s fine. As long as Jack will be back on the ice in a month or so, everything will be fine.

* * *

 

Jack still hasn’t texted back by the time he wakes up from his pregame nap, but Connor tells himself again that it doesn’t matter. He’s got to get to the rink and focus on his own game, the weight of the C on his chest feeling like more than just a letter and a title. Last year, he was the prophesied saviour, the Next One, but now? Now he’s supposed to be the _leader_ , and he’s not sure if he can do it.

All that fades away when he steps onto the ice, however, blood rushing and skates cutting through the fresh ice. This is their season opener, and hell if he’s going to waste it thinking about a friend on a different team who sprained his ankle. He’s got bigger fish to fry tonight.

And the game itself might not be the prettiest he’s ever played, but he comes away from it with two goals and an assist and his first win as captain of the Edmonton Oilers under his belt, so that’s good and all. He also gets Johnny asking him if he’s heard anything from Jack, as if Connor’s supposed to be keeping track of him just because – well, just because he’s Connor McDavid, he supposes. “He hasn’t texted me back,” he had said, shaking his head.

Johnny had looked surprised, as if he had expected something more from their relationship. “Me neither,” he had settled for saying, however. “If you hear anything, let me know, okay?”

Connor wonders about this, because if Jack was to text either of them back first it would definitely be Johnny, who was a. exclusively Jack’s liney throughout training camp and the first game and b. not Connor McDavid, whom Jack had apparently only very recently stopped hating. But then he’s finally on his way home, having passed on requests to go out tonight in favour of – honestly, he doesn’t know.

His place is quiet and empty when he gets back, just like he expected, but he can’t help but wonder what it would be like if there was someone here waiting for him, maybe sitting on the couch aimlessly watching whatever plays after postgame or snacking on the chips he keeps hidden from himself. But there’s nothing waiting for him at home but the darkness and the chill of heating that somehow still hasn’t kicked in.

Shedding his suit jacket and loosening his tie, he plugs his phone into the charger on the countertop and rummages in the fruit up drawer of his fridge for a snack, looking to get an early night. His phone buzzes as he rinses an apple, and he ignores it for a moment, thinking that it’s got to be someone texting to congratulate him or something. He’ll deal with that later. But then it keeps on going, telling Connor that he’s got a phone call from someone that evidently will not be dissuaded by his not coming to the phone. With a sigh, he picks up without looking at the screen. “Hey, this is Connor,” he says.

“Hey, it’s me,” Jack responds. “I – I got your text.”

Connor laughs despite himself. “Did you appreciate it?”

“You’re a few months behind the times,” Jack says. “But yes, I appreciated it anyways.”

“Good to hear,” Connor says.

Jack’s silent on the other side of the line for a moment, the two just listening to each other breathe, but then he finally says, “It sucks, you know? That it happened at practice and all.”

Connor hums in agreement, taking another bite of his apple. “You’ll be back soon,” he says despite knowing just how little statements like that actually do to help.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jack says. “Good game tonight, though.”

“You watched it?” Connor asks, pleased despite himself.

Jack laughs. “Caught a few minutes in the third. You looked good.”

“Thanks,” Connor says. “You – get better soon, okay?”

“Okay,” Jack says dryly. “Whatever the great McJesus says. You sure you can’t lend me some of those godlike healing powers?”

“Healing powers my ass,” Connor responds. “You think I wouldn’t have used those when my collarbone got fucked up?”

He can hear Jack’s grin through the call. “Man, you probably just wanted a break. Lazy-ass motherfucker.”

“Fight me, see if I’m lazy,” Connor shoots back.

“Dude, you have no idea how much I would’ve paid to fight you a year ago,” Jack responds.

Connor smiles even though he knows that Jack can’t see him. “Yeah, well, what about now?” he asks before he can stop himself.

There’s silence on the other end of the line, and Connor’s worried that he’s misstepped, somehow, and Jack’s going to hang up on him and ghost him and fade out of his life and the very idea is _terrifying_.

But then Jack laughs again. “You’ve got the worst taste in _everything_ , of course I’d still fight you,” and Connor breathes a sigh of relief.

(He lies awake thinking about this when he finally hangs up and goes to bed half an hour later. It scares him how much Jack’s insinuated himself into Connor’s life, made himself indispensable and irreplaceable. But he accepts it – he _has_ to accept it, because now that Jack’s slotted himself into a hole in Connor’s life, Connor doesn’t know how to let go.)

(And that’s okay.)

* * *

Jack texts him even more than he used to while he’s in the middle of recovery, something that Connor most definitely did not expect but embraces wholeheartedly. It seems that he wakes up practically every other day to some kind of complaint about how PT _fucking sucks_ or to some dumb meme that he found while browsing Reddit. It’s strange, this easy friendship they’ve somehow fallen into together. And, sure, this may have been what Connor was looking for when he asked Jack to hang out that one night during the pretournament games, but he can say with some certainty that he never expected to be this successful.

When Buffalo comes to Edmonton, Jack’s not on the plane (for obvious reasons). Connor tries not to be terribly disappointed by this, but it was still one of the few chances he had to hang out with Jack and it’s a shame to let it go to waste. _Wish u were here_ , he texts before he can stop himself, and then forces himself not to avoid his phone for the next forty years. It’s completely normal thing for a guy to text his friend, right? It’s not going to – Jack isn’t –

 _Me too,_ Jack responds.

Connor’s heart swells with fondness, even when Jack adds, _we’re still gonna beat ur ass tho._

“Who’s got you making such a stupid face?” Nursey asks, leaning in in an attempt to catch a glimpse of Connor’s phone screen.

“Your mom,” Connor shoots back automatically, pocketing his phone.

(He’s informed by three separate people in the next five minutes that he’s still grinning like a loon.)

* * *

Connor sends Jack a few Snapchats of his latest attempt at cooking after a game one night. He forgets about timezones, however, and doesn’t get a response until the next morning. It’s Jack, just woken up, hair messy and face still creased from the pillow. Connor thinks he’s beautiful.

He also spends too long staring at the picture to actually process the caption.

So instead of responding generically, he chooses to leave Jack on opened and call Stromer instead. “What do you want, Davo?” Stromer says, mildly miffed. “I have to leave for practice in five minutes.”

“Jack Snapped me as soon as he woke up and he looked _so good,_ ” Connor says bluntly.

Stromer cackles right into the phone, forcing Connor to pull his ear away from the speaker. “Jesus Christ, _that’s_ why you called me? I thought you were like dying or something!”

“I _am_ dying here,” Connor whines, flopping back on his bed, dropping his phone next to him.

Stromer probably rolls his eyes. “I can’t believe you’re being so dramatic over Jack fucking Eichel, man, what the _fuck_ happened to ‘he’s objectively hot but also an asshole so I’d never fuck him’?”

“Fuck you, I don’t sound like that,” Connor protests halfheartedly.

“You’re completely _stupid_ over him,” Stromer laughs, completely ignoring Connor’s misfortunes. “I can’t believe this, oh my _god_ , this is fucking _gold_.”

“Shut up and let me pine in peace,” Connor says.

Stromer laughs. “If you wanted peace, you wouldn’t have called me.”

“You’re right,” Connor sighs, rolling over onto his stomach. “Distract me. Has Brinksy done anything supremely stupid lately?”

“You don’t even know,” Stromer laughs, staying on the line even as he gets his stuff into his car and drives to practice. It’s comfortable, feels like home, and Connor can pretend that he’s not thinking about Jack at all.

When he finally gets off the phone, though, there’s another Snapchat waiting for him. _Can’t believe you’re leaving me on opened_ , Jack says against the backdrop of an unknown road outside a car’s windshield.

 _Sorry_ , Connor responds, retaking the picture five times before he’s finally satisfied.

* * *

 

Amidst all the talk of another McDavid-Matthews matchup (which Connor for one thinks is dumb – Auston’s a pretty cool guy and they played on the same line on the World Cup, so the media should _maybe stop_ ), Connor gets a text from Jack that simply says _I’M CLEARED!!!_

And that means that Jack’s going to be playing against him when the Oilers go to Buffalo, and sure, that should be exciting, but then Auston gives him the most shit-eating grin from across the faceoff dot and says, “Got any plans in Buffalo?”

Connor may or may not shove him out of the way with a little more force than is necessary.

(Honestly, Auston’s one to talk. Connor can _see_ the way he and Mitch look at each other. It’s disgusting. He shouldn’t be forced to suffer like this.)

( _I swear to God matts and marns are trying to get into each other’s pants,_ he texts Jack after the game. If he has to suffer through this, Jack’s going to too.)

( _Not something I want to b thinking about,_ Jack responds.)

* * *

Jack looks good across the faceoff dot in Buffalo. Connor wants to tell him as much, but the ref is still looking between them like he’s afraid they’ll start fighting or something, so he swallows the words and goes for the puck. But it’s good, though, all clean hits and exhilarating races for the puck, and Connor feels at home in his own skin.

He’s still mildly bitter about the OT loss, though, especially since he didn’t manage a goal of his own and the Oilers choked at the last second _again_ , but at least he put up two points to Jack’s one so that’s something. He can work with that.

And Jack appears at the visitor locker room after the game, freshly showered and back in his game-day suit, wide grin and stupidest hair and all. Connor’s fairly certain that he’s got the dumbest look on his own face just by the way Nursey’s barely holding in his laughter in the next stall over. “Yo, Davo, want to come get dinner with me?”

“Sure,” Connor says, smiling despite himself.

Nursey wiggles his eyebrows ridiculously. “Be back before curfew! No funny business!”

“We can’t cover for you if you miss team breakfast,” Ebs adds with a shit-eating grin. “So try not to go home with him, okay?”

Connor sighs. “Get the fuck outta here,” he says, but without any real heat.

(He’s thought about it.)

(He’d never tell Ebs that, though.)

* * *

Jack takes him to get wings, because they’re in Buffalo and they’re both huge fucking clichés. No one in the restaurant pays them any mind, which Connor is supremely thankful for. “Let me order,” Jack says as soon as the waitress leaves them to pore over their menus.

Connor shrugs. “You know what’s good,” he agrees.

They’re quiet once their waitress has taken their orders and left. Both their phones are out, but it’s not as awkward as Connor might still have expected. Instead, it’s comfortable, an easy companionship, and Jack keeps on wordlessly getting his attention just to show him funny Instagram posts or dumb videos.

Then he suddenly says, “They asked you about me _again_?” He slides his phone across the table to show Connor an article on nhl.com about the game that they just played.

Connor shrugs. “Don’t worry. I didn’t tell them about all the time you’ve wasted on Reddit when you should have been napping or the ridiculous number of dumbfuck memes you send me.”

“Excuse you, those are _good_ memes,” Jack shoots back, mock-offended.

“There’s no such thing as a ‘good meme’,” Connor insists, complete with air-quotes and all. Nevertheless, he slides Jack’s phone back to him. “But I didn’t throw you under the bus, is what I’m saying.”

“So what did you say? ‘A good guy’?” Jack reads, laughing. “‘Always kind of talking’? ‘Always kind of the centre of attention’? Wow, what a stellar review.”

Connor laughs along with him. “Hey, they asked what you were like,” he responds.

“‘I definitely enjoyed my time with him’,” Jack continues, voice softening. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Connor says, quieter this time. “Always.”

“I – ” Jack obviously doesn’t really know what to say here, and Connor is content to let the moment stretch out between them, taut with some kind of strangely comfortable tension.

Their food comes, breaking the silence, and Connor makes the appropriate noises about the deliciousness of the food, but in all honesty he can barely taste it. He’s too busy staring at Jack’s freckles and the way he licks sauce off his fingers.

“Hey. Hey. McDavid. Connor. Earth to McJesus.” Jack snaps his fingers in front of Connor’s nose, startling him out of his reverie. When Connor blinks in surprise at him, Jack’s voice softens and he adds, “You okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” Connor responds, turning back to his food. “Just – thinking about shit, y’know?”

“Anything you want to talk about?” Because Jack has a media façade and apparently also a “friends” façade, because the Jack Eichel Connor used to think he knew back before the draft would never have asked _anyone_ if they wanted to talk. Not even Hanifin.

Probably.

But Connor would probably die of mortification if he actually _told_ Jack what he was thinking about, especially since there’s a spot of sauce on Jack’s chin and all Connor can think about is licking it off. “It’s nothing,” he says. “Thank you, though.”

Jack finishes another wing, wiping that smudge off his face, and grins. “So anyways, did I ever tell you about the time Reino went to Walmart when he was drunk off his ass and blew like a thousand dollars?”

* * *

“Hey,” Jack says quietly when they pull into the hotel’s parking lot, pausing the music. “Mind if we – park for a moment?”

“Yeah, sure,” Connor says, confused but willing to roll with it. Once Jack’s parked and turned off the ignition, he unbuckles, turns to Jack and asks, “What’s up?”

Jack sighs. “This – I – thanks for letting me take you out to dinner, I guess. I had a great time.”

“I’m glad I could bless you with my presence,” Connor says, grinning. Then, because he hates himself, he points out, “You didn’t – take me out, though. It wasn’t a date. We just – got dinner together.”

Jack mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “would’ve been nice if it was” but Connor really isn’t willing to take that chance, so he ascribes it to wishful thinking.

He also really doesn’t want to get out of Jack’s car, though. It feels – safe, somehow, like everything outside waiting for him, pressuring him, can’t reach him while he’s sitting in companionable silence with Jack Eichel. And when he looks over at Jack, the lights of the passing cars fly over his face and play off his hair and make him look ethereal, and Connor –

Connor wants to kiss him.

(Okay, fine, Connor always wants to kiss Jack now, but now? Now he can’t think about anything else, caught up in the barely-visible fan of Jack’s lashes and the bow of his lips and how much he _wants_.)

Suddenly he notices that Jack’s been watching him this entire time, and he thinks that – maybe – he seems some of what he’s feeling in Jack’s eyes. And he doesn’t want to say anything about it, because _what if he’s wrong,_ but his traitorous lungs decide to breathe out a “Hey”.

Jack says something at the exact same time, maybe “So” or “Well” or another superficially-meaningless word, but it doesn’t really matter because they both burst into laughter a second later, the moment broken.

And Connor thinks that – that maybe _this is it_ , that Jack’s going to turn the engine back on and go drop Connor off at the loop and that will be that, and there’s something inside him that rebels at the very idea of leaving Jack again like this, everything unspoken. But – but _it’ll be fine_ , he thinks as they calm down, reduced again to dopey dumbass smiles.

Then Jack sighs, mutters “Fuck this shit”, and unbuckles his seatbelt. Before Connor can tell what’s happening, Jack’s leaned over the centre console and –

and is kissing him.

One arm tight around Connor’s shoulders, the other one cupping his face, and Connor could _melt_.

But by the time his shocked brain has finally processed all of this, Jack is pulling back, and Connor already misses the weight of his arm. He grabs blindly at Jack’s hand before he can get too far away. “No, please – c’mere – ” he stutters out, before pulling Jack back into him – or himself into Jack – it doesn’t matter.

They fall together like gravity this time, drawn to each other and feeling the weight in the way Jack sucks at Connor’s lip, the small sound Jack makes when Connor works a hand into his hair, the desperation with which they’re clutching at each other, trying to get as close as possible.

And it’s not perfect, the gear shift digging into Connor’s thigh and the awkward angle straining his back, but it’s also everything he could ever want. Jack is warm, his lips are soft, and his fingers are scrabbling at Connor’s dress shirt, trying to untuck it. Just the thought of skin against skin sends shivers down Connor’s spine.

They break eventually, but it’s not a sure thing, Jack darting in to kiss Connor again like he can’t help it. When they finally stop, lips tingling and hearts racing, Jack rests his forehead on Connor’s, still cupping Connor’s cheek.

He leans into the touch. “I didn’t – I didn’t think – ” he says in disbelief.

Jack smiles, and it’s stupidly charming. “You’re lucky you’re so cute.”

And Connor can’t help himself, pressing back into Jack’s mouth again, because now _he’s allowed_. He’s allowed, and Jack is solid and real and _here_ , not just a name at the top of his phone screen or a voice at the other end of the line, and Connor wants to be lost in this moment forever.

He can’t, though, and that hurts more than anything else. He tastes the lingering sweetness of Jack’s Diet Coke on his tongue and feels the breath stolen from his lungs, and he doesn’t know how he’d ever let this go.

But he has to when his phone alarm goes off, telling them that his curfew is fast approaching. It’s so hard to tear himself away from Jack, though, when Jack’s lips are so red and kiss-bitten and inviting and who knows the next time they’ll see each other.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Jack whispers, breath ghosting across Connor’s lips.

“Yeah,” Connor agrees shakily. “Yeah, okay.”

He kisses Jack again, one last time, and then forces himself to open the car door and get out, refusing to look back. If he did, he’s not sure if he could still make himself leave.

* * *

“– so _dumb_ , Jack, Jesus Christ, why did you ever think this was a good idea?”

“We’re in _fucking Aruba_ ,” Jack says, sticking his head out of the bathroom. “No one’s going to recognise us. It’s going to be fine.”

“What if they do?” Connor demands, almost hysterical.

Jack sighs and puts his comb down, reeling Connor in with his other hand. Connor goes willingly, tucking himself into Jack’s side like he belongs there (because he does). “Then they do. We’ve got a plan, remember?”

“Yeah, but – ” Connor starts, before turning to bury his face in Jack’s shoulder. “I’m scared. I don’t want to lose you.”

“You’re not gonna lose me,” Jack says firmly. “No matter how hard it gets. I just – I just want to hold your hand in public, okay? And if we can do that here, I’m going to do it here.”

Connor can’t find his words. The only thing left for him to do is kiss Jack, so he does, backing him into the bathroom counter. It’s familiar, now, but the way Jack’s tongue feels against his is not something he’ll ever get tired of.

“I love you,” he says, and it’s the first time he’s ever said it to Jack.

“I love you,” he says again, and it feels like a revelation.

“I love you,” he says a third time, and it’s something he’s always known.

Jack says “I love you too,” breathes it into his mouth and speaks it with his lips and hands and body.

They lose track of time like that, pressed up against the bathroom counter and lazily making out, but it’s all good. It’s all good, because it’s the offseason and they’ve got time, and they love each other and that’s –

It’s all that matters.

**Author's Note:**

> talk to me on [tumblr](http://www.olllmaatta.tumblr.com) pls i want to cry about my peng and oil and leafy boys


End file.
